Magical Christmas Concerts

'Tis the season to be merry. Or so someone once said. Obviously said person was never forced to sit in an overheated school gymnasium with three hundred or more hacking, sniffing and slightly suspect people while a high school band assaults your ear drums with it's rendition of "The Little Drummer Boy."

My ears are still ringing.

I used to love the kid's school concerts, especially the one at Christmas time. What is more merry than watching a horde of five year olds scan the crowd, pick their noses and sing off key? Inevitably, there was always one girl who tried to pull her dress over her head while she fidgeted and one boy who fell off the back of the bleachers while poking his buddy standing beside him.

Usually they were my kids.

Now that Fric and Frac are older the concerts are decidedly less entertaining. It's less about scanning the crowd and waving wildly to their over-proud and camera-wielding parents and more about remembering the words so they can get back to their classrooms to watch an inappropriate video while getting hopped up on sugary treats while their poor abused parents are stuck listening to the next off-key and badly produced rendition of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and hoping for some sort of distraction so they can sneak out of the auditorium unnoticed and go stick pencils in their ears.

(Or maybe that's just me.)

How boring.

Fric and Frac have now transferred to the big school which means they no longer share concerts with the cute five year olds and clumsy eight year olds. Now they perform their concerts with students all the way to the ninth grade. Teenagers. A brass band. Sneers and eyeball rolling replace the cheerful nose picking and wild waving of their younger days. Now when their mom or dad stands up to take a picture and whistle out of parental pride those damn teens pretend they don't know the aging geezer making an ass out of themselves in front of the local town.

I kept catching whiffs of someone smoking weed all night long. Betcha that would make the concert less painful and more fun for whichever random FOURTEEN year old who was burning herb behind the teacher's lounge.

Instead of watching the wiggling and giggling of some overexcited and freshly lacquered six year olds, I was stuck watching the wiggling and giggling of a pack of scraggly, unkempt stoned grade niners. It just wasn't the same.

Fric and Frac, were great, of course. Frac must have sensed my sadness and made crazy faces at me the entire time his teacher forced him and his class to perform like trained monkeys while sporting elf hats. I was a tad saddened to see he can now simultaneously sing, poke the kid next to him and make faces at me and while still remain firmly planted on the back bleacher. My baby's growing up.

Fric blew her french horn like her little life depended on it, and while it still sounded like an elephant grunting in orgasm, together with the rest of her class band, "Jingle Bells" never sounded finer. She was the prettiest girl on the stage with her golden locks and shiny brass horn. It won't be much longer before her poor daddy is going to have to find a big ass stick to beat those boys off.

As I sat with my fingers in my ears and huddled in a dark corner so as not to have to talk with anyone and watched this confection of Christmassy delight I marveled over how quickly these kids of ours grow up.

Just last year it seems, they were yanking pony tails and forgetting the words as they smiled with glee under the bright lights and loving gazes of their parents.

Soon, they'll be sneaking out back and puffing on their whacky-tabaccy while lamenting on the lameness of their teachers for forcing them to look and act like dorks just so their parents can have a photo op and a Christmas memory.

When next year's concert rolls around, I'm packing ear plugs and bringing a flask. Just look for me. I'll be the one standing next to the back doors hoping to get a contact high.

Wait and See

I never wanted kids. I never played with dolls and dreamed of having my own little minions to one day boss around and mold into personal slaves love and cherish. I never dreamed of white picket fences, home baked cookies, pigtails and cute little outfits.

I never gave parenting much thought at all. Up until the moment I murdered a rabbit peed on a stick and faced the reality of looming motherhood, I never figured I was cut from the maternal cloth so many of my friends seemed to be made from.

Until that moment, the moment the little stick showed it's plus sign, it never dawned on me what having children would, could bring to my life. I never understood the blessing of children. I just saw snotty noses, dirty diapers and stressed out moms. I didn't see that as a future I could embrace.

Some where between my own babies caterwauling, snotty noses and dirty diapers, I discovered the joys of parenthood. The sweet coos of a sleeping baby, the robust giggles of a toddler and the gap tooth grins of my kids charmed me into thinking I could do this. I could be a mom. And like it.

Then Bug was born and the rules were changed. There were no late nights nursing a sweet infant back to sleep. It was all about hospitalizations and doctors and medical procedures. It was about scary diagnoses, impossible hopes and fighting fears.

When other moms were rousing themselves for late night feedings and rocking their babes back to sleep, I was stumbling in the dark, stubbing my toes and trying to figure out which monitor was shrilling it's alarm in the wee hours, warning me of Bug's imminent doom.

While other moms dealt with sore nipples or dirty bottles, I was trying to lift my kid out of his specialized high chair or his crib without trying to yank out his gastric feeding tube.

As other moms struggled with solid foods or temper tantrums, I was juggling a medication schedule that would give any nurse a headache and trying to keep my other two kids from hiding the plastic syringes in the couch cushions.

While other moms worried their toddlers weren't playing nice with others or were being bullied on the playground by an obnoxious sand-thrower, I was trying to get other parents and children to simply see and acknowledge my child. Other moms worried about preschool, princesses and television programs. I struggled to fit the damn wheelchair in the back of my car, remember his speech equipment, his splints and wonder if I was going to be on time to pick up the other two children after a day at the hospital.

It was trial by fire and more than once I felt the burn.

Yet I would sell my soul to the devil himself to have one more minute to experience that flame.

In a blink, it was over. And there were two stunned little kids who didn't understand why their brother was no longer banging cupboards in the wee hours of the morn, no longer there to play choo-choo with them.

I'm was left with hard questions and no answers. Just tears, enough to fill an ocean.

As time passes, that ocean gets deeper. And yet, every morning the sun still rises, the clouds still part and the waves from our ocean of loss no longer threaten to topple us over. Instead, they mostly bathe us with the warm memories of a life that was filled with love and joy.

With the adoption looming, and the possibility of a new brother or sister to love, we are all reminded of the little boy absent from our home, yet never from our hearts or our minds. I've found myself explaining to family and friends, again, why we want to walk this path once more.

Why would we want to put our hearts on the line for a child who may never be normal, or healthy or even grow up. Why would we want to wrestle with hospitilizations, medications, therapies and social frustrations.

I nod my head and agree that it's easy not to be able to see past the frustrations and scariness of a disabled child. But, I remind them, it is impossible to forget the joy those children shine with and spread to all who come into contact with them.

Bug made sure of that.

And so will our next child.

That's what I tell people when they ask why we want to adopt such a needy child.

Just wait until you meet him or her. Then you will know.

It is My Will

As Boo and my first real vacation creeps up before us, I've been in a mad scramble to put our personal affairs in order before we leave. This includes paying the bills (like tossing a pebble at a mountain, I tell you), hiding all of my toys so our house sitter doesn't discover her big sister is a bona fide pervert, and getting our wills done.

While we are fleeing the country and abandoning our children on the doorstep of Boo's sister, we want to be responsible about it. We do have our priorities. They may be slightly screwed, but we have them.

This is not our first will. We scrimped and saved our sheckles when Bug was first born to make sure all the legalities were covered in case something ever happened to us and he was left uncared for.

But our circumstances have obviously changed. Bug's no longer a consideration and suddenly, thanks to my husband busting his butt and picking the nits off a bunch of monkey asses up in the Great White North, we are actually solvent. We have assets. More assets than my great grandmother's deep freezer and the third generation lawn tractor my husband inherited and refuses to let die. (After all, his daddy cut lawn with that tractor, back in the day. You just can't replace something like that. Even with one with a muffler, brakes and an actual seat.)

We hemmed and hawed for a while and put off the appointment while we argued over which relative deserves the luxury of raising our misbehaving, wildly imaginative and smart-talking offspring creative and charming children. Would it be my brother Stretch, who has no children of his own or Boo's brother, the Great White Hunter who has more children than I have shoes?

Do we consider our sisters and their families or do we just yank the kids out of the family entirely and saddle them on our closest friends? It was a difficult decision with many aspects to try and consider. We wanted to make the best decision for our children and their interests. While it would have been easier to close our eyes, spin three times and hurl a dart at the family portrait and give the kiddies to whoever's face was stuck by a dart, we actually tried to be rational about a very emotional decision.

It was a hard decision to make, because the reality is, no one is able to parent your children as well as you. That's why their YOUR children. The thought of leaving my kids and not seeing them grow up was a difficult and scary reality to consider. But the thought of leaving them at the court's or our family's mercy was an even scarier prospect for my freakishly controlling self to consider. Better to play the puppet master while I still can, I figure.

In the end, I believe we did the best thing for our children. Maybe it wasn't as fun as my idea of selling them to the local circus, but it was the right thing to do. (Ever notice how the right thing to do is always the most boring option?)

Fric and Frac overheard me talking to a family member about our will and wills in general and started to ask questions. Whether it is due to age or family history, I was surprised to find them rather matter of fact about death and slightly nonchalant about it.

In fact, they were down right mercenary about it.

"Mom, if you and Dad die, where will we live?" Fric asked after I was off the phone.

"There are standing orders that if your father and I kick it you will be bundled up and packed up North. Santa pays good coin for strapping young children to slave away at the toy factory. Apparently the elves have unionized and are killing his bottom line. Cheaper to go with orphans in the long run."

"Cool. I like Santa." Frac responded while totally engrossed in a video game. Fric merely rolled her eyes and sat quietly for a minute. I could see the wheels in her brain churning.

"What happens to the house when you die?" She inquired.

"Well that depends on what the executor and your guardians think will be best for you and Frac. If you're young, it will probably be sold. If you're older, maybe you guys will just live in it. I don't know."

"So, if you die, we'll be rich?" Funny, I could see a gleam in her eye.

"Um sure. You'll have all the kibble in the world to dine on. As for actual money, well, depends if they ever make Monopoly money legal."

"What about your jewellery?" She is starting to freak me out now. I'm having visions of waking up to find her standing over my bed with a shovel.

"What about it?" I retort.

"Who gets it when you die?" she asked, while eyeing the kitchen knife set.

"It's kinda rude to ask that Fric," her brother chastised her while never lifting his eyes from the video game screen.

"Ya Fric. The contents of a will are secret until the day we die. That way I don't have to listen to you argue and bitch if you don't like what we decided. It's the same idea as voting. It's a secret until the big reveal."

She looked a little sad and a little worried and suddenly I fretted that I was leaving the country, flying off to dance topless on some sandy beach while drinking mimosas and she'd be at home, distraught that her mother didn't love her enough to leave my cubic zirconia earrings and plastic pearls to her.

"Don't worry Fric. You'll get most of my jewellery," I told her as I kissed the top of her head.

She sighed and looked troubled as she said, "You won't be mad if I didn't want it would you, Mom? Cuz my skin is kinda sensitive and I can't wear cheap metals. Maybe you could give it to Frac."

Boy. Didn't see that one coming. It's not like all of my jewellery is cheap. Well okay. It's all cheap. But not all of it is fake. So much for trying to be sensitive and caring to my child.

"But, if you want, Mom, you could leave me all your money. I promise I'll share some of it with Frac." I just bet she would.

I could feel the love roll right off of her, I tell ya. I hope I die a short painless death, because if she's in charge of me when it comes to my nursing home days, I do believe I may be screwed.

This is why Boo and I decided there is only one true way to ensure our eternal peace. We're leaving all of our assets to someone who will appreciate them, in all their shiny, varnished, made-in-China glory.

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever, is gonna be the king of his own castle.

I'm sure he'll look really pretty with all that fake bling around his neck.